Opinion pieces, travel articles, places and people; lots of poetry; commentary on current events and history and whatever else shows up on the radar. Articles have been numbered (since Sept. 2004). Go n-eiri an t-adh leat.

Saturday, December 15, 2007

O, Dublin, sweet and slow,I come and goup and down your cobbled streets,as the rain, insistent,dampens down the lights,and throws an orange fuzzy sheenover half-seen sights,over places I have been,some near and some not far:Grafton Street, Stephen’s Green,The Coombe and Temple Bar,

The Traitors’ Gate.

Crowds of loud young Englishshout and laugh, then urinate,lavishly, groaning, here on the street,beside the peagreen Liffey(sweet Anna Livia Plurabelle);well, at least they’re not in uniform,and sure, dammit, what the hell,it's a far sight worse we’ve seen before,insurrection, hatred, famine, war:and such a fine collection of bullet holesin our central city monuments.

So let the hen parties heave their guts outon the raincold cobbles:let them stagger home and say,what a wild time we had in Dublin!Let them come back in ten years or so,with their fourth or fifth bloke,with all their kids in tow,and have another drink, a smoke,perhaps then they'll have some peace(for peace comes dropping slow)and echo these words of Louis MacNeice:This never was my town,I was not born or bredNor schooled here and she will notHave me alive or deadBut yet she holds my mindWith her seedy elegance,With her gentle veils of rainAnd all her ghosts that walkAnd all that hide behindHer Georgian facades -The catcalls and the pain,The glamour of her squalor,The bravado of her talk.

Sweeney’s the chemist,where Bloom forgot Molly’s lotion,is still in Lincoln Place;and so is the old post officedown on Westland Row:O you naughty naughty boy!I do not like that other world.And please will you tell mewhat perfume does your wife wear?Bloom smell-sipped his glass of burgundyat Davy Byrne’s, on Duke Street,a disappointing place these days,so gentrified. I well rememberhow one of the old barmenwas kill’t telling me how Joyce, yer man,would be writing away at the back table,dat filthy buik, Allergies, or wha’ever.Ah, would you fuck off, says I.Yeh bleedin bowzy, says he,I took yeh for a fuckin Yank.

We still stack up the deadnext to my grandfathers,maiden aunts, cousins and uncles,in the wild sprawl of Glasnevin.Poor poor Paddy Dignam!(“No home is completewithout Plumtree’s Potted Meat”).Poor dear betrayed Parnell.O’Donovan Rossa.O’Connell.Emmett.Tone.Collins.Ah, Michael …Macushla! … cut down at thirty-one,our greatest chieftain since O’Neill!Cut down, I might add,by one of our own.Why do we do this?Ask Jonathan (Gulliver) Swiftwho suggested, politely,that the English should eat Irish babies,help with the balance of payments.England thought he was serious,and so did some of the Irish.“Where can I sell me baby, sorr?”Well, without you, Michael,we’d still be prancing around the worldon British passports.

Yerra, Carolan!Tabhair dom do lamh.*Give us an oul’ song!

Up on the flinty North Side,Drumcondra, Marino, Whitehall,sits my old local, The Goose,just there by Sion Hill;I’d be away three years, maybe more,then I'd stroll into the gaff,and the lads’d say, where ya been?Japan. O yeah? Me, I went to Benidorm,two weeks with the new girlfriend,fuckin magic! Right, it's my round,then we’d talk and sing and laugh.Sometimes An Taoiseach lounges in,good old Bertie himself, backed upby hard-looking thugs. “Yo!” says I,“is it the Prime Minister or his bleedin twin?”“Ah, Malachy!” says he, priding himselfon his memory for names, a head like tin.“No,” says I, “isn’t it me myself?”“O, Jayz, the astronomer … the geographer,or was it the stamp collector?”“B-b-b-bertie! You got it in one!”After that, a pint, a good long chat,here at “home” in Dublin North:he may be the grand prime minister,but he knows where that home is at.

On Bridge Street, down by the City Walls,sits an ancient pub, the “Brazen Head”,and many a time and oft have I lingered,langered, within its stout-built chambers:this is the oldest pub in Dublin, 1198.About fifty yards away is the bridge,the – ‘Atha Cliath’ – the Ford of the Hurdlesfrom which the city takes its name,a river crossing on the ‘Sli Cualann’,one of the five ancient roads of Ireland,the path from Tara to Glendalough.That helps explain the licence plates:we’re the citizens of “Baile Atha Cliath”,and “Dubh-Linn”, which is also Irish,is not where we live at all.

In the mean little streets near Christchurch,winding and awkward to this day,a proto-Nazi called Major Sirrcornered the rebel Lord Fitzgerald,then got himself stabbed for his pains.Thirty-odd thousand died that year, 1798;thousands more were transportedin creaking hulks to Australia,a new setting for Irish prisoners,a new continent to slowly transform:America was to come along later.Not many long years before that,The Mad Dean of Saint Patrick’s,that entrepreneur, that pamphleteer,(the cathedral looms just down the road)that purveyor of roasted Irish babies,was laid to rest, now his epitaphfairly bounces off the wall:Hic depositum est corpusJONATHAN SWIFT S.T.D.Huyus Ecclesiae CathedralisDecaniUbi saeva indignatioUlteriusCor lacerare nequitAbi ViatorEt imitare, si poterisStrenuum pro viriliLibertatis Vindicatorem **

God, it’s an old country,but the weight comes down like a feather.Nothing seems heavy, all drops down so lightly.Freedom. Freedom, more than any other thing,is central. You can go back throughall the old stories, the legends, the epics,the Annals of the Four Masters, local histories,you can listen to the voices of the rebels,all those who fought and died,four hundred, two hundred, one hundred years ago,right on down to recent times,and you sense this will never change,you know this will never change.

All the tubby little accountants,the cross-looking women in large automobiles,the fierce young sporting men,the giggling schoolgirls,the languid poets and philosophers,the businessmen in suits,the regulars in the pubs,the girl secretaries,the skangers and headbangers,the bus drivers,the radio and TV executives,the Nigerians, the Chinese,the actors, the musicians,the polite young Poles,the flower sellers,the asylum seekers,the Spanish students

can gather in the streets, burn down embassies.

Ancient city of an ancient country,ringed right round by the ocean sea;great powers that rise and fall around us,can do as they will, just leave us be.

Thursday, November 29, 2007

In 12 short paragraphs Chris Hedges manages to hit the main points and clarify what it is that causes so many thinking Americans to despair of the course their nation has been taking. Friends and allies overseas have been finding it increasingly difficult to support US policies and public opinion in these countries with regard to America is at an all-time negative low. The more optimistic among America's friends hope that relations will improve with the passing of the current Bush administration, one of the most arrogantly disastrous interludes in American history, but it would probably be more realistic to expect a modification rather than any drastic reversal of US policies and trends no matter which candidate wins the 2008 election.

America in the Time of Empirehttp://www.truthdig.com/report/item/20071126_america_in_the_time_of_empire/Posted on Nov 26, 2007

By Chris Hedges

This column was originally published by the Philadelphia Inquirer.

All great empires and nations decay from within. By the time they hobble off the world stage, overrun by the hordes at the gates or vanishing quietly into the pages of history books, what made them successful and powerful no longer has relevance. This rot takes place over decades, as with the Soviet Union, or, even longer, as with the Roman, Ottoman or Austro-Hungarian empires. It is often imperceptible.

Dying empires cling until the very end to the outward trappings of power. They mask their weakness behind a costly and technologically advanced military. They pursue increasingly unrealistic imperial ambitions. They stifle dissent with efficient and often ruthless mechanisms of control. They lose the capacity for empathy, which allows them to see themselves through the eyes of others, to create a world of accommodation rather than strife. The creeds and noble ideals of the nation become empty cliches, used to justify acts of greater plunder, corruption and violence. By the end, there is only a raw lust for power and few willing to confront it.

The most damning indicators of national decline are upon us. We have watched an oligarchy rise to take economic and political power. The top 1 percent of the population has amassed more wealth than the bottom 90 percent combined, creating economic disparities unseen since the Depression. If Hillary Rodham Clinton becomes president, we will see the presidency controlled by two families for the last 24 years.

Massive debt, much of it in the hands of the Chinese, keeps piling up as we fund absurd imperial projects and useless foreign wars. Democratic freedoms are diminished in the name of national security. And the erosion of basic services, from education to health care to public housing, has left tens of millions of citizens in despair. The displacement of genuine debate and civil and political discourse with the noise and glitter of public spectacle and entertainment has left us ignorant of the outside world, and blind to how it perceives us. We are fed trivia and celebrity gossip in place of news.

An increasing number of voices, especially within the military, are speaking to this stark deterioration. They describe a political class that no longer knows how to separate personal gain from the common good, a class driving the nation into the ground.

“There has been a glaring and unfortunate display of incompetent strategic leadership within our national leaders,” retired Lt. Gen. Ricardo S. Sanchez, the former commander of forces in Iraq, recently told the New York Times, adding that civilian officials have been “derelict in their duties” and guilty of a “lust for power.”

The American working class, once the most prosperous on Earth, has been politically disempowered, impoverished and abandoned. Manufacturing jobs have been shipped overseas. State and federal assistance programs have been slashed. The corporations, those that orchestrated the flight of jobs and the abolishment of workers’ rights, control every federal agency in Washington, including the Department of Labor. They have dismantled the regulations that had made the country’s managed capitalism a success for ordinary men and women. The Democratic and Republican Parties now take corporate money and do the bidding of corporate interests.

Philadelphia is a textbook example. The city has seen a precipitous decline in manufacturing jobs, jobs that allowed households to live comfortably on one salary. The city had 35 percent of its workforce employed in the manufacturing sector in 1950, perhaps the zenith of the American empire. Thirty years later, this had fallen to 20 percent. Today it is 8.8 percent. Commensurate jobs, jobs that offer benefits, health care and most important enough money to provide hope for the future, no longer exist. The former manufacturing centers from Flint, Mich., to Youngstown, Ohio, are open sores, testaments to a growing internal collapse.

The United States has gone from being the world’s largest creditor to its largest debtor. As of September 2006, the country was, for the first time in a century, paying out more than it received in investments. Trillions of dollars go into defense while the nation’s infrastructure, from levees in New Orleans to highway bridges in Minnesota, collapses. We spend almost as much on military power as the rest of the world combined, while Social Security and Medicare entitlements are jeopardized because of huge deficits. Money is available for war, but not for the simple necessities of daily life.

Nothing makes these diseased priorities more starkly clear than what the White House did last week. On the same day, Tuesday, President Bush vetoed a domestic spending bill for education, job training and health programs, yet signed another bill giving the Pentagon about $471 billion for the fiscal year that began Oct. 1. All this in the shadow of a Joint Economic Committee report suggesting that the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan have been twice as expensive than previously imagined, almost $1.5 trillion.

The decision to measure the strength of the state in military terms is fatal. It leads to a growing cynicism among a disenchanted citizenry and a Hobbesian ethic of individual gain at the expense of everyone else. Few want to fight and die for a Halliburton or an Exxon. This is why we do not have a draft. It is why taxes have not been raised and we borrow to fund the war. It is why the state has organized, and spends billions to maintain, a mercenary army in Iraq. We leave the fighting and dying mostly to our poor and hired killers. No nationwide sacrifices are required. We will worry about it later.

It all amounts to a tacit complicity on the part of a passive population. This permits the oligarchy to squander capital and lives. It creates a world where we speak exclusively in the language of violence. It has plunged us into an endless cycle of war and conflict that is draining away the vitality, resources and promise of the nation.

Saturday, November 10, 2007

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old: Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning We will remember them.------------------------------------Please go here for the original, longer article.

Sunday, November 04, 2007

Fourteen years. Two children.One miscarriage; her racking sobs in the night.Her eyes reveal nothing; I hardly know her.Her eyes are hazel with flecks of green,She has noble carriage, a proud woman’s gait;Her black sweeping hair has a blueish sheen,She stands before me, my wife and mate.

- Dear wife.- My lord husband.Why have I ignored her all these years,Under the one roof, food from the one table;My voice when I speak holds back the tears:Can I bridge this chasm, am I still able?

- The children?- Quite safe, My Lord. They sleep.- I have need to speak with you.- My Lord?- Come, let us move into a private chamber.- Shall I disrobe?- No, no, no, no, no – it’s not like that at all!- Have I displeased you in some way?- Not at all, my dear, quite the contrary.

O’REILLY !!!

- Sir, yes sir?- Bring us some wine, like a good fellow.- Very good, sir. The usual, is it?- No, no … bring in the good Spanish.- Not much left, sir. Are ye sure?- Just do what I tell you, dammit!- Rightyo, sir.- And don’t say rightyo!- Righty …very good, sir.

We move into the wind-cooled room,It has Italian marble walls and floor;There is a passing chill, a hint of the tomb,I softly, firmly, shut the door.

- What now?- The wine, sir.- Bring it in, blast you!- Rightyo, sir.- And don’t you bloody well …- Ah, sorry, sir.The good Spanish, sir.Not much left of it, mind,I was just after telling the cook …-Would you kindly pour the wine, O’Reilly?Pour the wine, man, and clear off!- There was fourteen sat down to breakfastand every one, sir, was dead before dinner.- What? Not now, O’Reilly.- Tis a vision, sir. I saw it clearly.These things will come to pass.- I’ll wring your bloody neck, O’Reilly.How’s that for a vision?- Rightyo, sir.

A pause. A tasteless sip of priceless wine.

- My dear, the situation …- I am aware of the situation.The enemy has marched from Dublin.We will soon be under attack.- Yes, well, I suppose the whole castle knows.- And now my Lord is … afraid?

When she spoke those words, love drained from my heart,I gazed at her coldly from across four hundred years;Like my forefathers I too could play my part,I would never, could never, succumb to my fears.

- You misunderstand me, my Lady.- I think I understand you well enough.- I see. You will stay with the children.Neither they nor you will come to any harm.

There was a glint in her eyes, a hint of derision,a mockery in those hazel, green-flecked eyes,and I could suddenly catch a glimpse of myselfas seen by this woman through all those years.Upon this, not the battle, I reflected, ruefully,as I strapped on my nearly new armourand called for my old but sharpened sword.

Soon came the enemy to the gates:dear God, these brazen, upstart English!Well, it was the usual confused affair,a lot of noise and dust and private agony.We were deemed to have won since we didn’t quite lose,the traditional form of Irish victory,and our lives settled back to the normal round.

I continue to live at the castle,Richard, Lord Admiral of Malahideand the adjoining seas surrounding,with my lady wife and children.She looks at me now with apprehension.O’Reilly has a brother, a prosperous smuggler;we have twenty new barrels of good Spanish wine.Upon occasion, as a means of diversion,I ride to Dublin with a light escort,there to visit certain friends of mine.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------Malahide Castle was built by the Talbots in 1185 and remained in the family until the death of the last in the male line, Sir Milo, in 1973. On the morning of July 1, 1689 (by the Old Calendar) fourteen men of the family sat down together for breakfast and by nightfall all fourteen had fallen at the Battle of the Boyne. The castle and surrounding parklands were sold to the Irish State in 1975 and are a popular picnic destination for Dubliners. The pleasant seaside village bearing the same name is now home to Adam Clayton and the Edge of the rock band U2.

Tuesday, October 16, 2007

I was reinforced in my dominionby ignorance and by stubborn pride,by a belief in only one opinion.Stand out of my way, sir,if you know what is good for you.I lied,because I could not tell the truth.Bare facts, an abomination,lacked the salt of imagination.I triedto explain things always in a waythat would meet some expectation.Unwelcome possibilitiesgot themselves shot downlike darkies in a cornfield,like wetbacks in a river.The bosses didn’t care:never shouldn’ta oughta bin there.Mow them down, rat-a-tat-tatjump in the car and hit the town,then talk of Rembrandt and Cezanneand try to fondle Sally Anne.Do the same old thing tomorrow,a well-dressed man of constant sorrow.

***Many versts across the barren fieldsfrom the shining palaces of Petersburg,a girl with snow-white arms upraised:O Bog, she says (their word for God),O Bog, get me out of here!

***As an unwanted child,lonely, destructive, anti-social,I had no trouble believingthat God was indeed a special friend.Little then did I knowwhat I've come to know in the end.The Church, as ever, opened its armsand welcomed my delusion;it prays and preys uponadolescence and confusion.My son, do you have a vocation?Get away to fuck.(Get away to fuck, Father ).I was not in the habit of talking to strangers,unless, of course, idiot tourists,eager and uncertain,looking for a place to spend hard cash.A furry masculine moustachebegan with the hairs around my groin,it would join in the fortunes of those parts,the intricate lies, the broken hearts,the additions, loans, debentures,the many cold-eyed cheap adventures.I held one truth to be self-evident,that all men procreatedpretty much continuously,so in order to stand outone had to be a bit of a bastard.In fact, I mastered the mechanicsat about the age of six,an enlightening heady mixof bluff and certain knowledge,so that all the blows and cuffs and kicksof the ambient adult worldbecame a poor boy’s college.I’ll tell you one thing,you can forget the rest:those to whom evil is donedo certain evil in return.They burnwith righteous and amoral wraththey cleave a hard and frightening pathbetween the innocent and the innocent.Stand out of my way, sir,if you know what is good for you.The guilty they leave well alone(those boys can be dangerous).I never really fell in loveuntil seven years ago.I had a carapace of immunity,ready-made, form-fitting,born of the arrogant impunityof treating people as things.But I find love bringslittle happiness, less relief.It is my sad and certain beliefthat love can never be learnednor earnedwhen a loveless child becomes a man.My planwas to rule the worldor at least my little bit of it.Then the whiskey got in the way.God bless the whiskey;pity it wasn’t tears instead.

Thursday, October 04, 2007

Scott Ritter, an intelligence specialist with a 12-year career in the U.S. Marine Corps, joined the United Nations weapons inspections team, or UNSCOM in 1991. He participated in 34 inspection missions in Iraq, 14 of them as chief inspector. Ritter resigned from UNSCOM in August 1998, citing US interference in the work of the inspections. Since then he has become a vociferous and outspoken critic of US Middle East policy, in particular the "selling" of the Second Iraq War to the American public. Recently he has been trying to warn that similar falsifications and misrepresentations will be employed by the Bush administration to justify an assault on Iran. Two of the main themes in his articles and public appearances are that the American public does not understand its own Constitution and has allowed the current administration to undermine it seriously if not fatally under the rubric of the Global War on Terror, and that the US public has little if any understanding (or interest) in the historical tensions that have been causing a rise in fundamentalism within the world of Islam.

Ritter writes:

The task of holding Congress to account is a daunting one, and can be accomplished only if the citizenry that forms the respective constituencies of our ignorant congressional representatives are themselves able to operate at an intellectual capacity above that of those they are holding to account. So rather than issue “pop quizzes” to our elected representatives, I’ve designed one for us, the people. If the reader can fully answer the question raised, then he or she qualifies as one capable of pointing an accusatory finger at Congress as its members dither over what to do in Iraq. If the reader fails the quiz, then there should be an honest appraisal of the reality that we are in way over our heads regarding this war, and that it is irresponsible for anyone to make sweeping judgments about the ramifications of policy courses of action yet to be agreed upon. Claiming to be able to divine a solution to a problem improperly defined is not only ignorant but dangerously delusional.

So here is the quiz: Explain the relationship between the Iraqi cities of Karbala and Baghdad as they impact the coexistence of Iraq’s Shiite and Sunni populations.

Most respondents who have a basic understanding of Iraq will answer that Karbala is a city of significance to Iraq’s Shiite population. Baghdad is Iraq’s capital, with a mixed Sunni and Shiite population. If that is your answer, you fail.

Click here to read the rest of Ritter's article "Calling Out Idiot America"

Wednesday, October 03, 2007

According to Japanese legend, around 2,000 years ago the divine Yamatohime-no-mikoto, daughter of the Emperor Suinin, set out from Mt. Miwa in modern Nara Prefecture in search of a permanent location to worship the goddess Amaterasu-omikami, wandering for 20 years through the regions of Ohmi and Mino. Her search eventually brought her to Ise, in modern Mie Prefecture, where she is said to have established Naikũ ( the Inner Shrine) after hearing the voice of Amaterasu Omikami saying that she wanted to live forever in the richly abundant area of Ise, near the mountains and the sea. Prior to Yamatohime-no-mikoto's journey, Amaterasu-omikami had been worshiped at the Imperial residence in Yamato, then briefly at a temporary location in the eastern Nara basin.

Officially known simply as Jingū or "The Shrine," Ise Jingū is in fact a shrine complex composed of over one hundred individual shrines, divided into two main parts. Gekū (外宮), or the Outer Shrine, is located in the town of Yamada and dedicated to the deity Toyouke no ōmikami, the deity responsible for sacred offerings of food to Amaterasu, while Naikū (内宮), or the Inner Shrine, is located in the town of Uji and dedicated to Amaterasu ōmikami. The two are located some six kilometers apart, joined by a pilgrimage road that passes through the old entertainment district of Furuichi. The High Priest or Priestess of the Ise Shrine must come from the Japanese Imperial Family, and watches over the Shrine.

According to the official chronology, the shrines were originally constructed in the year 4 BC, but most historians date them from several hundred years later, with 690 AD widely considered the date when the shrines were first built in their current form. Legends say that Naikū was established by Yamatohime-no-mikoto. The shrines are mentioned in the annals of the Kojiki and Nihonshoki (dating from 712 and 720, respectively).

The architectural style of the Ise shrine is known as Shinmeizukuri (神明造) and may not be used in the construction of any other shrine. The old shrines are dismantled and new ones built to exacting specifications every 20 years at exorbitant expense, so that the buildings will be forever new and forever ancient and original. The present buildings, dating from 1993, are the 61st iteration to date and are scheduled for rebuilding in 2013.

Gagaku Court dance

Site of the older shrine, now rebuilt behind the wooden fence to the right

Modern worshippers cluster at the rebuilt 1993 shrine (Note security guard at left reminding me photos are strictly forbidden within the shrine precincts! Oops.)

Friday, August 10, 2007

It's 2 am -- and the Usual Suspects gather round the table. The discussion kicks off and soon slips into second gear ... ... while Da Boss (Mehmet the Wise) lays it on the line ...... and the Valued Customer (Sam the Man) responds in kind ... ... as Chris takes all of this serious stuff in ... ... and So Hee thinks, it's 3 am and they're just getting started!!

Monday, August 06, 2007

Arrows pierced the hut when I was seven,and my father fell stricken on the hob;a chap with an axe finished off the job,me Ma was screaming and I was silently

cheering them on, wide-eyed, frightened,peering up from under the table.

Bad cess to me Daddy, thank God he's gone!But me Ma, by God, was in floods of tears.How can ye mourn him after all those years?Ah, he was my heart and soul and moon and sun!

I shall never understand women.

The Sassenachs came when I was fifteen.I was given a spear, shoved into the line;sure, stay in the middle, lad, and ye'll be fine!But they hit us in the middle and front and sides.

Bleedin disaster.

Dear God, these people had horsesthe size of bloody giraffes,and better dressed, too, than we were;they sliced us up and killed us in dozens.

I went to ground in the woods of Wicklow,and met a sweet girl, her name was Marie.She said, young man, I cannot sleep with theeuntil Ireland once again is free!

Molly Ivors.

I slippy-slided back to Dubbalin:sure where else could I hope to go?Malaga.Taormina.Benidorm.Hydra.Phuket.Penang.

Go local in Kyoto?One photosays it all.

Shalangalang. Smack.

That was then.This is now.

I have the power of prediction.I have lived six hundred years.That's OK. No, really.

There is a notch in the hills,just there, please look at the horizonas the sun goes sinking down.This is why I love Africa.Egypt, on the other hand, reeks; it does;it has the smell of the Pharaohs,the stink of whips and chains.Stone pyramids.Nazi mentality.

And I love the Greeksfor no good reason.They delivered us freedomto smash 200 platesto bouzouki music.God, how we enjoy that!When we are slightly drunkthere is nothing betterthan to sling around platesunless you want to slap your wifeor kill your girlfriend.

Love turns sour in the baking sun.

Inspector Robinson, CID,made an arreston Mykonos.Jesus, that took balls.The wallsgathered close around him.Been there? You knowjust what I mean. Deadly.Israel? Don't even think about it.Fifty-five machine gunsfor every hundred yards.Trigger happy maniacs.Bad fuckin bastards,and only half of themin uniform. I tell no lie.

If you and I could flyacross the deep and wine-dark sea,there could be hope, there could be love and mystery,in the ancient cradle of our history.We could look to the rising of the sun,but some idiot fucker has a gun.

Come little lad, come home to me.This world pushes kids like you to take it:when you grow to a man you can shove and shake itlike a tambourine; I seenthat so many, so many times.And not a thing you do(I loved that girl)not a single solitary thing(I loved her from the start)will makethe slightest difference.

Thursday, August 02, 2007

Short was my sleep when I heard, thought I,A violent quaking of the ground nearbyA storm from the north violently brewingAnd fire from the harbour luridly spewing;In my mind’s eye, a quick surveyRevealed towards me by the bayA violent, bulging, big-assed croneHer huge bulk hinting at testosterone;Her stature, if I reckoned right,Was six or seven yards in heightShe dragged her cloak for yards behind herThrough the mud and mire and squalor.’Twas mighty, majestic, wild and horridTo gaze upon her blemished forehead;The rictus of her gummy grinWould make you jump out of your skin.God almighty! In her huge clawWas the biggest staff you ever sawA brass plaque at its spike definedThe bailiff’s powers to her assigned.In a gruff voice these words she spoke:Up! Shake a leg! ya sleepy yoke;Shame on you, to be stretched out hereWith court convened and crowds drawing near.It’s not a court without rule or code.Nor a marauding court in your usual modeThis court is built on a civilized base—The court of the weak with a female face.Ba ghnáth mé ar siúl le ciumhais na habhannAr bháinseach úr is an drúcht go trom,In aice na gcoillte i gcoim an tsléibheGan mhairg gan mhoill ar shoilseadh an lae.Do ghealadh mo chroí nuair chínn Loch Gréine,An talamh, an tír, is íor na spéireBa thaitneamhach aoibhinn suíomh na sléibhteAg bagairt a gcinn thar dhroim a chéile.The ancient race without wealth or libertyNo tributes, leaders nor legal autonomyThe rape of the land with naught in its train,In place of the crops, a weed-rank terrain;The nobles languish in a foreign landWhile the jumped-up rich get the upper hand,In betrayal ardent, in plunder greedyFlaying the sick, despoiling the needy.It is blackly baneful and sticks in the crawThat, in darkest despair over the absence of law,There’s nothing from no one for the purposeless weakBut a depredacious future that is hopelessly bleak,The knavery of lawyers, tyranny on highInjustice, fraud and neglect applyThe law is clouded, the scales awry,With all the pull that bribes can buy.Ghealfadh an croí bheadh críon le cianta—Caite gan bhrí nó líonta le pianta—An séithleach searbh gan sealbh gan saibhreasD’fhéachfadh tamall thar bharra na gcoillteAr lachain ina scuain ar chuan gan cheo,An eala ar a bhfuaid is í ag gluaiseacht leo,Na héisc le meidhir ag éirí anairdePéirse i radharc go taibhseach tarrbhreac,Dath an locha agus gorm na dtonnAg teacht go tolgach torannach trom,Your race without young ones is sad to seeWith women burdening the land and the sea,Once buxom maids and lasses freshWith boiling blood and sultry fleshAre now lethargic, relicts debasedOnce trim girls are gone in the waist;’Tis a pity that these are without fruit of the wombWithout swelling breasts and bellies in bloom.They just look for the word, please don’t waitUntil they are past their sell-by date.The solons decided after deliberation longNot to try the case before the fairy throng:But to appoint a plenipotent magistrateWho could, with the people, mediate.There was an offer from Aoibheal, with a heart so cleanMunstermen’s friend and Craglea’s queenTo the assembled council to bid farewellAnd in the land of Thomond to bide a spell.This gentle upright lady sworeTo rip out bad laws by their coreTo stand steadfast beside the poor and weakSo the mighty will have to cherish the meek.The powerful desist from inflicting wrongsAnd justice enthroned where it belongs:I promise now that no power nor lure,Nor the blandishments of pimp or whoreWill undermine the dispensationOf this tribunal for its duration;The village of Feakle is where the court is sittingGo and attend it—you’ve got to get crackingGo quietly or at your peril direI’ll drag you there through the muck and mire.With her crook she grabbed the hood of my capeAnd off she dragged me with no escapeDown through the valleys I was propelledTo Moinmoy Hill church where the court was held.For sure, I saw there ablaze with lightWhat seemed like a stately mansion brightSparkling, spacious, tapestried,Spectral, sturdy, brilliant indeedI spied Aoibheal, the fairy wenchSeated on the judge’s benchI saw a strong and nimble guardNumerously gathered round their ward;I saw a household that was jammedWith men and women inside it crammed.Then came forward a majestic cailínShe was soft and comely, of gentle mienWith tumbling tresses framing her faceAs on the stand she took her place.Her hair was loose and flowing freeBut her face was the picture of miseryHer eyes were fierce and filled with hateAnd she worked herself to such a stateThat she moaned and heaved and sobbed and sighedBut couldn’t speak though hard she tried.You could see from the flood of tears she shedThat she’d much prefer if she were deadThan being on the floor facing the standsKneading her fists and wringing her hands.After her protracted jags of cryingShe cleared her throat, with much sighingThe gloom lifted from her tear-stained cheek,She dried her eyes and started to speak:—A thousand welcomes, we guaranteeO Aoibheal, venerable queen of Craiglea,Light of the day, Ray of the sunWorldly wealth for the hard-put-uponConquering commander of the hosts of the blessedIn Thomond and Tír Lorc you were sorely missed;The crux of my case, the cause of my woeThe ache that has plagued me and laid me lowWhat knocked me sideways and struck me dumbCaused a searing pain that left me numb,—The finest of maidens wandering aroundWithout hope of a husband, a shilling or pound,Despondent young things without help of a mateInnocently barred from the matrimonial state.I know these maidens whereof I speakOne hundred and one for whom prospects are bleakI list myself among these wrecks:I got my gender but I get no sexAt my time of life, ’tis depressing and coldDoing without luxuries, jewels and gold,Gloomy and cheerless is my plightUnable to sleep through the pleasureless night,But tossed with worry lying thereOn a chilly bed, alone not a pair.O Lady of Craiglea, you must assessThe extent of Irish women’s distress,How, if the men continue with their ways,Alas, women will have to make the playsBy the time the men are disposed to wedThey’re no longer worth our while to bedAnd it’ll be no fun to lie belowThose old men who are so weak and slow.Even if, with a young man’s fire,One in seven of the beardless were to desireTo mate with a lass of his own ageHe wouldn’t choose the noble or sageWith an hour-glass figure and a knockout faceOne who can carry herself with graceBut an icy, cheerless, catty bitchWho used all her guile to make herself rich.It’s the scourge of my heart and a pain in my headAnd fills my thoughts with a sense of dreadIt’s what has made me sad and sighingTotally wasted with all this crying,—When I see a lad who’s brave and coolWho is virile, vigorous and strong as a muleWho is steadfast, skillful, bright as a pinFresh-faced, funny, with a ready grinOr a boy who is frisky, frolicky, funWith a well-built body, second to noneBeaten, bought, bound unawaresBy a hussy who’s extremely light upstairsOr a slovenly slattern, a workless wenchWho’d make you gag with her noisome stenchA prating, prattling, babbling bagAn indolent, irritable, horrible hag.My God, I hear that an ill-mannered mareWith unshod feet and uncombed hairIs to be hitched tonight which I find really grating;What’s wrong with me that I’m left here waiting?What is the reason that no one loves meAnd I so lissome, so svelt and so lovely?My lips so red are made to be kissedMy face so bright it cannot be missedMy eyes are green, my locks are flowingCurly and plaited and healthily glowingMy forehead and cheeks are without zits or boilsA porcelain complexion that nothing spoils.My neck, my breast, my hand, my fingerEach would make a young lad linger.Look at my waist, my fine bone frameI’m not crooked or hunched or lameA butt, a foot, a figure to impressI’ll not go into what’s beneath my dress.I’m not a hussy, nor yet a dripBut a delicate beauty with lots of zip,Not a slovenly, slatternly pigNor a joyless boorish prig.Not a lazy laggard with no cloutBut a choice young woman well turned outIf I were as worthless as some of my neighboursA tiresome tramp who never laboursIn the ways of the world without foresight or flairWhat would it matter if I fell into despair?But it has never been on people’s tongueThat, at wake or funeral for old or young,In the hall for the dances or at the race trackOn the hurling pitch among the packI wasn’t dressed from head to toeIn a tasty costume fit for a show.My hair is powdered to a TMy starched cap riding jauntilyMy bright-hued hood with ribbons galoreA polka dress with a ruffled pinaforeAnd I’m seldom without it, except in bed,My cardinal cloak of deepest red.My striped cambric apron is fit for a queenEmbroidered with a plant and animal sceneStiletto heels attached with screwsGive a lift to my fashionable shoesGloves of silk and buckles and ringsThese are a few of my favourite things.But beware, don’t think I’m loose a screwA witless fool or quaking ingenueWho’s timorous, lonesome, whimpering, weakA simpering, cowering, beaten-down freak.

Friday, July 20, 2007

The idea behind this post is quite simple. The intent is to show new and returning readers how Ireland recovered its cultural self-confidence and then forged its political independence during the crucial four decades between the 1880s and the 1920s. The method is to create links to the biographies of 35 individuals who were born between the years 1846 and 1891, the actual lifespan of the “Uncrowned King of Ireland”, Charles Stewart Parnell.

Most of the work is done by Wikipedia – and yourselves. I supply the birthdates and the names. Some of these names may already be known to you; others probably will not. The interesting thing is that most of these people either knew each other personally or had at least heard of one another. Ireland is a small country and Dublin, even today, is little more than an extended village.

I’m not about to offer any useful hints (politician, playwright, revolutionary, trade union leader) since half of the fun is discovering who these people were and how they related to one another and the “re-creation” of Ireland. In the separate stories of their lives you can piece together the story of the nation-to-be.

In closing, I would like to emphasize the rather significant fact that nearly half of the people on this list were Protestants, which, in the Irish context, makes them descendants of families who had been part of the post-Reformation invasions and settlements of the 16th and 17th centuries This did not make them any less Irish than their “native” counterparts, whether descendants of the Gaels or the Normans of the Middle Ages. In fact, their identification with Ireland was in many ways more acute than the others because it involved a conscious rejection of England and English ways. Without these people the Irish could never have created the modern nation in the way they actually did – and this should never be forgotten or swept under the rug by Irish Irelanders in the style of D.P Moran who proclaimed that only a Catholic nationalist could be a true Irishman or Irishwoman. This is simply not true, and the evidence lies in these various biographies.

Thursday, July 05, 2007

Airey was a friend in truth,a fairy, yes, but not a poof;a tough guy called Regthrew him off a high ledge.It's a long way to tip poor Airey.

When I have fears that I may cease to befar away from friends and family,I think, by God, although I'm odd,I welcome change, however strange:in a cheerful melancholy way,Death could be a holiday.

In fires forever burning,on a spit forever turning,just like a Turkish kebab;I'm glad I never paid the tabin so many clubs and bars.God, won’t they be raging!the thought is quite engaging:they’ll be tearing their hairas if I carefor all them drinks I bought!

I never thought,I never thought I’d wake upafter I hit the groundat ten zillion miles an hour.Splat! That’s that.Wishy-washy lack of beliefaffords but scant and thin relieffor the falling, failing agnostic.Here is a falsely true acrostic:Sweet dreams by icy lethal waters.*

The myriad sons and daughtersof O’Leary of the Yellow Handhave formed a band,here in the place I’m at.I told that them I couldn’t sing,but they want to know what I can bringto add to the balance of joy.Where’s God? So sorry, m'boy,He’s away, he’s always away.And the Divil’s off in Osaka Japanto follow up on his business plan,(An Dhool is no fool)trawling for souls in a language school.

Listen, will I be dead for a long time?Just as long as ye like.On yer bike, resurrect some hobbyand make it last ten thousand years.Any wee jobby to keep yer mind off things,but stay away from collecting stamps:stamp tramps are pure ferocious:Super Calley Went Ballistic: Celtic Were Atrocious.Hierophants and sycophantsmake me want to wet me pants,revert to my psychosis.

But can I do that, like?Wet meself, scratch, play with girls?No, you can’t. You’re, like, disembodied.What about this pain in me arse?Imaginary, old son.You can keep the painbut yer arse is dead and gone.Where’s it gone to, so?The Soap Factory.

In cold brittle little exchangesI accommodate myself to certain changes.Aren’t ye glad ye’re Catlick?Y’wha?? Fuck you on about?Even so. You should see the shabby shedswhere they stick the poor sad feckin Neds.The Jews have chic flats in the Mews(they were right all along)Oooh, baby, won’t you shake your thong?Instruct us, don't you dare amuse!And them towel heads? Don’t arsk.I don’t ask. And the Jehovahs?They’re stuck with the oul’ whoresknocking on doors, forever and everand ever and ever. Amen.

Well, I never! This cheers me upconsiderably. Jayz, I couldkill for a pint. Are there any pubs in Hell?Naturallement! As Monsieur knows wellthe Squareheads, the Jocks and the Mickscouldn’t die without them. There are Czechsand balances, mind you, like the Skandieswho have acquired a taste for shaving lotion,an effective if quite "deadly" potion.Har, har, a pun. What fun! Listen,we send people back from time to time,would you like to go? I don’t know.Being dead's, like, doin’ in me head,but it’s not so bad, y’know?Even so. Pack up and go:back to the World of the Living.Cease receiving, son. Start giving.

O Jayzus, damn, by heck!I just got a bang on the back of the neck.I turn to my oppressor,a large and hairy male cross-dresserin a pink tutu and fawn little boots.Beige, ye barstid, fawn is outré!but what I really want to sayis 'oo the feck are yoo?I delivered a thump and a bit of a bump'coz ye look just like a ghostmon semblable, mon frere,are ye back from under there?"

I yam. Right, so, whattya think,will we call it quits and go for a drink?Seventeen pints after,ciggies, girls, and gurgling laughter,it's home with young Ivy Maloneon the Bakerloo, she don’t live alone.The thing to do, she tells me,is climb up the garden ladderBecause I reelly don’t want me fadderor mudder to see yez. Haul away.Show a light in the windy, sweet darlint,show a light where I can see yez,yer luverly pearl-white arms,yer full abundant charms!And here’s a tiny little kiss,a promise of a night of bliss.

I feel so drainedyet self-containedas I gaze into the glass:a faint recognitionof the apparitionI know to be myself.Dead, mislaid, or on the shelf,this, too, I think, shall pass.Her flashing eyes!Her thunderous thighs!All in two words explained:convent trained.Her legs grab tight-ily,mightily wrap around my ass:heave-ho, puff and blow!Sky is high and ocean deep:will she never go to sleep?

Ah, it’s not bad to be aliveonce more. I can’t remember whenbefore it felt this cool. A general ruleis to keep the head down low,and let the winds crack and blowabove you, like young sweet Ivy Malonebreathing hard in her shoebox of a roomup there on Dollis Hill.I close my eyes, I remember stillher posters of Duran Duran,the night I was her only man.

Being dead ain’t that bad, either,once you get the hang of it, like.The thing is being killed,being shot or stabbed or smashed to bitsor tossed off a high building;that’s the bit I don’t much care for.Reg had hairs sprouting from his noseand he had a bit of a ripe smell about him,so when he pushed me off the roof that dayI had a bit of a snob thing about him,not at all in my league, I’d have to say.

Time to drop in on hairy Reg.I can imagine his moonlike pasty faceas he takes my presence in.I’ll slip in the icy uncanny wedgeof fear. Here is a ghost, my dear!But things seldom work outquite as one expects: in many respectsDeath and Life are both unfair.I stand before this old armchairand gaze on Reg, unprepossessing sight,He’s been out all night,God, he looks the worse for wear;wheezing, snorting through his nose,crumpled-up clothes, drunk as a coot,one filthy, ugly, smelly brute.

When he wakes up, I’ll top him,but not until he knows,not until he really knows.Then I’ll walk into the hall,and descend. I need a friend,have none at all. I was in loveand then I wasn't in love.I was also once in life,and then no longer in that.Snow falls on distant mountains.Sweet dreams by icy lethal waters.Drip … drip … drip.

-----------------------------------------------------* a falsely true acrostic, in that only 22 of the 28 letters are used with an extra 'e' thrown in; seven words.

Saturday, June 02, 2007

My dear Ghalib, you are exceedingly arrogant,and seem to think you know it all:I cannot follow your obscure ghazals.Zauq is more the man for me, he is alsothe chosen poet of our discerning king.People say openly you should learn from him.His language is limpid, pure, and clear.Ahh, the son of Channa Lal, the moneylender,I do believe. Forgive me, I am not mistaken?Run back to your counting house, young man,and do not presume to pass ignorant commentson things you cannot comprehend. I amthe Light of Delhi, a star in the firmament,and you, no more than a smoking guttering lamp.I think we shall not speak again. Good day.

Captain Collingwood

Interfering oldJennings wants to convert the localsand of course they bloody well resent it, even ourown people think he is pushing too hard.We have more and more of these Blue Lightreligious chaps, even in the Army, and I cantell you, mark my words, it bodes ill for the future.Incidentally, I met Elizabeth Skinner the other day,very gentle-mannered and perfectly charming.She's quite light-skinned even if her father's half-black.The grandfather came out in the last century,and like so many of those early Company men,married into one of the best local families.These days, of course, it's not the done thing.Natives of the better class can be perfectly polite,but while aping our manners, can never be English.

Ghalib

Bahadur, I am most grateful for the basket of mangoes,intones the new royal poet, walking beside his patronon the Raj Ghat, along the banks of the Jumna River.Now that Zauq has passed on, I am conscious of your favour,and yet I feel you have not quite shown me the same honour.The Emperor, known to the Angreezi as the King of Delhiwalks slowly on, a smile comes fleetingly to his lips.My dear Ghalib, perhaps you did not enjoy the kite flying?It can be rather tiring to watch an old man behave like a child.No, My Lord, it was enthralling; it was a pleasure and an honour.I perceive it is an even greater honour that you seek, Ghalib?In truth, My Lord, as your court poet it is no more than my due!I see, Ghalib. You could never understand why I favoured Zauq?I could not, Bahadur. His poems were too childish for my taste.Childlike, Ghalib, not childish. Therein lies the essential difference.

Captain Collingwood

Take the King of Delhi, for example, a poor old codger,surrounded by fifteen wives and at least forty children:a museum piece, really, ensconced in the old Red Fort,the last of the Grand Mughals, descendant of Timurlane,living in the lost nostalgic corridors of a ruined pastwith hardly ten rupees to call his own. I've been toldthat his last great public procession through the citywith rented elephants and fireworks and marching bandshas put him firmly in the hands of the Jain moneylenders.Our own people, not surprisingly, will do nothing for him.The Punjab is ours, we took over Oudh last December,and general official feeling about the poor old boyis that he is the last of the line. On the other hand, he isstill widely admired, not only as the figure on the throne,but as a quite subtle and accomplished native poet.

Hakim Asanullah Khan

Asanullah Khan stands with worried eyes in the doorway.My Lord, this is not wise at your age, you must know that!Yes, I know, but I am in my eighty-second year, old friend,and must not pretend I can live forever. And I like the kites.A great deal more than you care for the proud Ghalib?Now, now, Hakim. I take an old man's pleasure in teasing him.Why do you look at me so? O God, is it the concubines again?I fear so, My Lord. Young Lalkoti with the Captain of the Guard.Whip the damn scoundrel and send him off somewhere.Should we execute the girl? What? No, of course not. Put herin the kitchens for six months, no, better make that three.My Lord, really, the punishment seems hardly sufficient, if I may ...Yes, yes, but I may not live another six months! I could manage three.Send for Chaman Lal. A skilled doctor, even if he has lost his wits.I need my feet attended. Converting to Christianity at his age!

Emily Metcalfe

I know my father was poisoned by the emperor's concubine,that evil schemer, Zinat Mehal Begum. All Delhi knows.These filthy people are so beastly and corrupt, I hate them!My dear good father spent his whole life among these heathens,and he brought them Justice and the blessings of British Rule.My Uncle Charles, and my brother Theo, along with dear father,forged a tradition of Christian service within this benighted land,but there is no such thing as gratitude among these conniving people.I was there, I saw with my own eyes how my father wasted awayon the eve of his very first holiday in seven years; within weeksmy dear sister-in-law followed him, having given birth to a childto the boundless joy of my brother. It was unbearable to seehis grief at her death, the wracking sobs that tore his frame apart!They killed her as well. I know they did, I feel it in my heart.Hakim Asanullah Khan

Bahadur ... jaldi, jaldi ... come here to the window, My Lord!What is happening on the Bridge of Boats, what is that smoke?What is the meaning of this, Asanullah, at this ungodly hour?It is nothing good, My Lord. I fear the Army is in revolt.But ... but, that is the army of the Angreezi. We have no army.Nevertheless, they come to Delhi, My Lord. They come to you.To me? Whatever for? What can they expect from me?You are the King, My Lord, the descendant of great kings.They want you to lead them against the Angreezi.O God, first the concubines, now this! Can I have no peace?Look, they have crossed the bridge, they approach the Fort.They are calling out for you. My Lord, you must show yourself!I have no intention of showing myself, Hakim Asanullah Khan.Send these people away. Send a messenger under cavalry escortand tell this rabble to go back where they came from!

Lieutenant Smythe-Pickering

They weren't bad soldiers, by and large, but times had changed.They all came from the same villages as their fathers before themand they thought they'd be treated as our sons and nephews.Maybe that was the style in the old days, but those days had gone;they were in uniform and paid to obey orders, and that was it, really.We knew the words of command, but didn't really take to the lingosince we were hardly going to chat with the black bastards!They were always ready to make trouble of some kind or another,usually starting with one of their nonsensical religious taboosabout beef or pork or some bloody thing. They were trying it on,to my mind, in the midst of the overpowering heat and the generalshort-tempered atmosphere. We had just issued the new cartridgesand set out to train this surly lot of peasants how to use them,but do you think they would listen? In my opinion they were justlooking for any bloody excuse, and that's how the whole thing started.

Hakim Asanullah Khan

Forgive me, My Lord, for disturbing your repose.Sawars have arrived, rough soldiers, and will not go away.Also, I fear, they have entered the city gatesand have engaged in a slaughter of Angreezi civilians.Riots have started and local Christians are under attackand many, perhaps all, have been killed. The poorhave joined with the soldiers and wholesale looting has begun.The banks and the moneylenders were the first victimsbut now they are plundering the havelis of all the wealthy.There is no force to prevent this, the kotwalis are desertedand the Angreezi do nothing, they seem to be in disarray!Ah, the moneylenders, said the King, with sly satisfaction,but such badmash lawlessness cannot be condoned.The English Resident must be informed and order restored!Alas, that gentleman, My Lord, now flees for his life.

Friday, May 18, 2007

"Let me tell you about the very rich. They are different from you and me. They possess and enjoy early, and it does something to them, makes them soft, where we are hard, cynical where we are trustful, in a way that, unless you were born rich, it is very difficult to understand." F. Scott Fitzgerald (1896-1940)

The rich are different from you and me,Said sad-eyed Fitzgerald, sozzled in Paris,To which burly Hemingway, the boxer, replied,Yes, they have more money.That was the famous put-down,Quoted over and over again, foundIn all the literary gossip sheets,But self-doubting Fitz had it right.

Daisy Buchanan had a voice full of money,Tinkling, silvery, cold and careless;With her shining hair and pouting lips,She had been born to accept convenience.Coolly, she witnessed the wreckage of lives,Other people’s lives, little people’s lives,And then blithely, gently, drifted away,Leaving others to clean up behind.

Fitzgerald understood this.Hemingway never did. He thoughtIt was all bluster and breaking through,Being better than you, a two-fisted manFrom Big Two-Hearted River.

Fight your first war from an ambulance,Marry a woman, write short sentences,Go to bullfights, drink, marry another woman;Shoot innocent animals in Africa,Write some more short sentences,Get drunk, go fishing, get in a couple ofAirplane crashes, go to Cuba, get drunk,Become a warzone tourist, show your teeth,Burnish your he-man reputation,Get married some more.It wasn’t a bad old life. Macho man,Successful writer, bit of an asshole.But then it all came downTo that cold bleak day in IdahoAnd the final metallic tasteOf that shotgun on your lips.Tell me, how did that feel?

Fitzgerald understood.In the Great Gatsby you canSee his secret life on display:Just as Robert Louis Stevenson,His brother writer before him,He shows, by design not by accident, His mild Dr Jekyll, Nick Carroway,And then he carefully uncoversHis half-horrified fascinationWith all the things that money can do:I live in this mansion, Old Sport,Haven’t quite counted the rooms,All my suits come from Savile Row,My shirts come from Jermyn Street,My shoes, of course, are handmade;I have servants, wine, food in abundance,The whole place is lit up like Coney Island,Mr. Nowhere Man from Nowhere.

Everything began to fall in place,In Gatsby’s dreams, in Fitzgerald’s,And all for the sake of brittle romance,Shattered, splintered, they both broke apart.A brilliant novel, “This Side of Paradise”Had sealed his fate. His early successCondemned him: assured, at last, of money,His Southern belle had married him,Ooops, let’s go to Paris! cried Zelda,Where all the advanced people go.One can imagine how well that went downAmong the embittered postwar French.Champagne, champagne, toujours champagne!The dollar then went a long long wayAnd all the locals (read the books)Were landladies, waiters and taxi drivers.Life was grand for Yankee layabouts,Life was a fuckin jamboree.

It was 1928, says Fitzgerald,Intermittently, inescapably observant,That I noticed how soft we'd become.Some of us were veterans of the WarBut all the local boys on this Italian beachCould have beaten the crap out of us.Hemingway, of course, would have none of it.He was still boxing in short sentences.Hem, I want you to look at my prick.Scott, tight, but not quite drunk, draggedhis uneasy friend into gurgling toilets.Zelda says I'm too small, says I'm no good.You're only small, says Hemingway,because you are not aroused. Hey tiger!I'm telling you, Scotty, pay no attention,She's an emasculating bitch.You can't say that. She's my wife, godammit!Ah fuck it, Scott, pull up your trousers.

Seventeen drafts for a novel,Written again and again and againJust to get the tone exactly right.I would say that was serious.The Saturday Evening Post paid excellent moneyFor the popular Fitzgerald stories.He worked hard at his craft, when sober,Rewriting again and again and again.

Then suddenly he was no longer popular.He went to Hollywood on a contractTo write screenplays from nine to fiveIn a breezeblock California buildingWith other sad less famous scribblers.He wrote heartfelt letters to his daughter,Until, finally, the drink did him in,Or else those bruises in his heart.

He could see them so clearly through the window.You are warm inside, I am cold outside.Knock, knock, knock.The rich are different from you and me.